This lack of response will make the fifth rejection in a slew of post-sweaty-palmed job interviews; and inevitably, at this particular point in the well-known process, I find myself repeating a historical cycle of self-doubt and system loathing. Smoking my tenth cigarette of the morning, I begin to wonder what it is about me that makes me so unworthy to sling hash. Did the dress I wore on the last interview reek of perfume, a cover-up for one who loathes laundry? Was the combination of Brueggers coffee and Kamel Reds lingering like a green cloud after my timid responses? Or was it just a "give away" look in my eyes (yeah, at some point we have all worn it)—The "Please-please-please-I need money bad-desperado-will work for food"—look that simply frightened the manager enough for him to not even call back. "Regardless, we will be sure to call you by Thursday. . . blah, blah, blah." Sure buddy, I'll be waiting by the phone, coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other.

The thing is, I never really considered myself a slacker, not consciously anyway. The great American work ethic had been instilled in me, having had parents who lived through the Great Depression. On occasion, when I told people that I was swinging three or four jobs, Why? was always the biggest question. My response was always, Why not? In some religious literature that a friend of mine subscribes to, there is a quote: "Heaven's when you have it. . . Hell's when you don't." Makes perfect sense to me.

So the question festering in my brain in moments of unemployment has always been: Is the chaos that I attract feast or famine, I mean, in what past life did my karmic force decide all of this? I can almost see it now: a big blinding form holding court with all of its peers, responding, "Happy medium?? Nah, she's fine without it, and besides, she's still paying off debts for dancing with Nero while Rome burned."

Ahhh. . . to live for the weekly buck. I sometimes think that, above all, it's not so much the look of desperation that frightens prospective employers as it is the insurmountable vibe seeping out of my pores that contradicts every correct answer and "yes girl" phrase. It is a truth which they themselves dare not even whisper even in their most honest moments—"Yes, Mr. Manager"—there is so much more to life than slinging hash.